


The Logic of the Situation

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pon Farr, Spiced Peaches XLVI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8451985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: When Spock enters his second pon farr, McCoy considers his alternatives and arrives at a logical decision.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for and published in Spiced Peaches XLVI

430 souls crew the U. S. S. Enterprise. All of them are hand-picked from the best of the best; all of them are distinguished from their peers in some particular way. All of them are locked together, for better or worse, inside a tin can hell-bent for leather, headed God only knows where. All are at the mercy of space, time, and random chance. 

For one of them, time has almost run out. 

Doctor McCoy sits in his quarters behind a bottle of Jim Beam, brooding. 

McCoy’s diagnosis of Spock’s condition is silent but certain, based on timing and behavioral patterns. He remembers the irritability, the refusal to eat, the elevated androgens and fight-or-flight chemicals. It’s been about seven Vulcan years. It all makes grim sense.

They’re too far away to reach Vulcan before Spock dies; even McCoy knows that. Besides, there’s no bondmate waiting for Spock there on the ancestral sands this time. There’s no point in fleeing to Vulcan to die alone when Spock can die in solitude right here. 

Spock must know McCoy’s aware of what’s happening, but they haven’t spoken of it. So far, the two of them are the only ones who know.

McCoy sits still and worries about Spock. He’s off-duty; he’ll be hiding in his quarters on the other side of the wall, kneeling in meditation, trying to burn the need out of his soul in the belly of his little firepot. McCoy knows it’s not working. There’s a certain quality to the silence seeping through the wall that tells him so.

He considers something Chapel said to him last time-- about how, when she went to tell Spock about the course change to Vulcan, he spoke to her, humble and kind. “I think he meant to accept me in order to save himself,” she’d confessed to McCoy later, tears sparkling in her eyes. “I couldn’t let him. It wouldn’t be right.” She’d wept, and he’d comforted her, the shoulder of his shirt soaked with tears and stained with mascara.

McCoy taps his stylus against his teeth, staring at the label on the whiskey bottle. He believes her. In his desperation, Spock would’ve accepted Chapel as his mate even though he nearly crawls out of his own skin with discomfort just being around her. McCoy thinks maybe he’d accept anybody who came to him in just the right way at just the right time. It’d be illogical to let oneself die if there’s a way to live.

It will surely happen that way this time, too, McCoy guesses. Spock’s at the mercy of his own biology-- a particularly cruel master for Vulcans, as McCoy and Kirk can both attest. He’ll choose someone rather than let himself die.

McCoy thinks about whether he ought to call Jim and warn him they have a ticking time bomb on their hands, but he doesn’t. Jim doesn’t have to know.

Only two people have to know this time.

McCoy pours himself a glass of bourbon and stares into the amber fluid. He and Spock have had their share of fights, some of them pretty bitter, some of them kidding around, some of them almost… loving. He wonders how miserable they’ll make one another in the aftermath of the pon farr. He remembers how miserable he made Jocelyn. She’d probably say Spock would be better off dead.

He rubs his fingertips over the shiny satin of his shirt, absently appreciating its smooth texture. It’s warm from his body heat. He wonders, idly, why he’s torturing himself. Why doesn’t he just go already?

He grumbles a little to himself; he still has a generous shot in his glass. There’s enough time for one more trip through his list of doubts before he makes up his mind. 

He sits back with his whiskey and weighs his options; he weighs probable outcomes. He’s not fool enough to think Spock will ever come to him without significant coercion. They’ve been shipmates for a lot of years, enough for it to become abundantly apparent Spock doesn’t think of McCoy in terms of a potential mate, if he thinks of him at all. No, there won’t be anything voluntary about this for Spock. This step will be taken thanks to obligation and accomplished with embarrassment, maybe enough of it to drown their sometimes-uneasy friendship for good. 

McCoy considers what it may cost him to keep Spock alive, and knows he won’t grudge the expense. 

He thinks about Christine for a while, tapping his fingers on the half-empty glass. She’s never made a secret of her feelings for Spock, and look what it’s gotten her. A lot of embarrassment and discomfort, a lot of disrespect from people who think she’s weak and pathetic, a lot of pain. She’s one of the strongest women he knows, determined to love and continue loving without any cause for hope. 

He drinks, then pours himself another two fingers of liquor. He could tell her and let her take care of it all. She’d be too smart to try the soup angle this time. She’d know what to do to get what she wants. It wouldn’t take much. Just her presence, just her willingness, just a little good timing.

He drinks, grimacing. Yeah, he could tell her, but he isn’t about to. He won’t for the same reason he keeps on not telling Jim. He’s a selfish sonofabitch, and this bittersweet cup is one he means to hoard for himself. 

If he actually thought Jim wanted this, he might feel guilty-- but no. Jim loves Spock like a brother, but he only wants women.

McCoy smiles without humor, remembering Jocelyn. She’d been livid when she found out his secret. Not that he’d ever acted on his homosexuality, not while he was married to her, but it was there the whole time, an invisible elephant in the room. 

He scowls at the discreet door set in his bulkhead, providing quick emergency access between his room and Spock’s. He heaves himself out of his chair, sighing. Glancing in the mirror, he catches sight of a man just starting to turn old: graying hair at his temples, not much extra flesh on his body, still wiry, still strong, but his skin is looser than it used to be, and he looks tired. 

The Starfleet uniform is dismal; there isn’t any flair to its design at all. He shrugs out of his blue overshirt, leaving the tight black undershirt on. He doesn’t look as thin with its protective covering as he does without a shirt at all. He knocks back the last of his second drink and savors the fading aftertaste. He pretends the black makes him look edgy, dangerous, seductive.

He wonders if all altruists are secretly selfish at heart.

It makes him smirk a little-- wry, irreverent. He has just enough of a buzz on to find his own hypocrisy amusing. 

It’s been four days. That was about the same stage Spock was at when Christine wandered in, before.

He wonders if Spock will appreciate how McCoy’s examined the logic of the situation. It’s perfect, really. He’s one of the few people aboard Spock can’t intimidate despite his superior rank. Their quarters are already side by side; no adjustment required there. The emergency door is the perfect camouflage. They can come and go without causing any gossip or suspicion whatsoever; nobody need ever know. 

He hesitates by the door to Spock’s quarters. He’d go in right now, but he’s unsettled-- and somewhere deep inside himself, he’s afraid. He’s endured one too many forcible mind-fucks to barge in there without a healthy dose of caution. Five or six too many, actually. 

He turns and goes to his computer console and cues up a recording session, labeling it for Spock’s eyes only. He tells the computer to store it with the things he’s got set aside for inclusion with his last will and testament. Staring at his own reflection in the screen, he pauses for a long moment before he starts to talk. 

“Just wanted to make a record of what I’m thinking tonight, Spock. Maybe you’ll play it someday.” He hesitates, unsure what he wants to say. “It’s your time, and I’ve decided to make sure I’m the one.” He smiles a little, wry. “You’ll have to forgive me for not sending someone else, but there’s nobody I’d rather trust with the job. There’s plenty who would help you, but nobody who’d see to the follow-through and do it right.” 

He shook his head. “You don’t make it easy for people to care about you, Spock. And neither do I, I admit. So I’ll just say it now: there’s nobody else but Jim who loves you enough to do this right. But I do. Love you. I love you.” He frowns, feeling his cheeks color. “And I love you that way, too, but Jim doesn’t, so it’s gonna be me who comes to you tonight. Maybe I’m crazy, but I don’t believe you’ll say no.” 

He pauses, long enough that he wonders if some unknown future Spock, freed at last by McCoy’s death, will continue watching. “I don’t guess I’ll ever get to say that to you in person, you know. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Wouldn’t want to spend a lifetime knowing I’d said it, but you never said it back.” 

He gives the unseen future Spock a crooked smile. “So I reckon I’ll tell you with my actions and trust you’ll have the sense to figure it out.” He can feel how strained his smile is on his face. “And I’ll leave this for you to find someday in case you didn’t understand.” He stops, pausing again. “Live long and prosper,” he says, and makes the sign-- he has to push his fingers apart with the fingers of his other hand, but he figures that will amuse Spock. He’ll need that, when McCoy’s really gone.

He looks toward the door again. He thinks once more about actions. He thinks about Spock commanding the Galileo mission not long after they met. Back then Spock would’ve left him or any other crewman behind without hesitation. He thinks about Spock three years later, refusing to abandon him to freeze when they were stranded together on Sarpeidon. 

He thinks of the years in between, and how much they’ve both changed.

Actions do speak louder than words.

He smiles a little. The green-blooded bastard won’t ever be human, but most days, McCoy doesn’t really mind. 

He saves the recording and turns off his computer terminal, then goes to the bath he shares with Scotty and brushes his teeth, rinsing the taste of whiskey off his teeth and tongue. He looks around his quarters one last time, feeling a little strange, as if he’s saying goodbye to the life he’s known here so far.

Maybe he is.

He straightens his shirt and squares his shoulders; he swallows hard. He’s still frightened of the meld, but he’s determined fear won’t stop him this time. He goes to the door.

It opens before McCoy can touch the catch; Spock stands there, his face dripping with sweat, his eyes wild with desperate heat.

It seems he, too, has chosen.

McCoy’s belly flipflops and something fierce and tender surges in his heart; he steps forward without hesitating and lifts his palm to caress Spock’s cheek. “I was just on my way in to help,” he says softly, running his thumb lightly over Spock’s paper-dry lips. His skin is feverish, almost scorching hot. “C’mon, Spock. Let’s take this to bed.”

Spock gasps relief and his eyes close; he shudders and drags McCoy against him, hands enclosing his face, lips crushing his with urgent need. McCoy surrenders both mouth and mind to the fire, willing.

The door slides softly shut behind them.


End file.
